Writing Prompt: On the sidewalk
Oof, so heavy. Dark. A shoe falls, no crushes, me. It's the fat man with
the big shadow. He comes every day at this time, and then again at
night which is sometimes dark and other times light depending on how hot
or cold I feel. His shoes change too, but not his thumping gait. He is a
monster of a man. Not like the light little tapping lady that skitters
along after him. Her heels are delightfully clicky. She brings out my
glitter, makes it sound better. And her little prints are so pretty. She
has a lot more of them than him. Her shadow is a lot shorter.
I don't like the gum. It feels thick and it never comes off, instead
it wares into me until it is mistaken for something more solid. The
only good news is that once in a while the person with the huge heavy
tail that squirts water washes it off. That's the best really, when all
the patches of people, their weight, clicks, clods and shadows go away
and it's just the one with the water, sloughing off everything that
isn't genuinely me.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
The Daily Write: "Look at it this way," he said (August 16, 2013)
Writing Prompt: "Look at it this way," he said
Standing beside the fridge, the plastic semi-opaque pint container with a black lid in front of me, another night, another non-dinner. Gluten free pretzels dipped into Trader Joe's tzatziki. I made my son a grilled cheese. My daughter went with friends to The Rainforest Cafe and then a sleepover. My partner was off with a new friend and me, standing in front of the mottled brown granite counter, colors more golden than when we saw the house three years ago, before we painted the kitchen warm glowing orange gold. Everything looks better in a warm glow, except the things that look better cool - like the white hot houses trimmed in cobalt blue on the islands of Greece, or a beach house perfectly rustic and empty in an old issue of Martha Stewart Living, before her name took a secondary place on the masthead.
I pry off the black plastic lid. Damn, an inside clear plastic protective film. I hate those - you have to cut them off, they don't make them with graspable pull tabs. Slimy, I carefully fold the plastic in half so I am gripping only the clean side and throw it away in the garbage under the sink behind me.
The smell transports me to the campground in Ioannina, the campground in Olympia, the campground in Delphi at the edge of the aquaduct that curves down the hillside toward the olive orchards. It's 1988 and I'm sitting on a rickety threshed chair, the four posts holding the seat pushing painfully into my thighs. Ripping bread from a fresh loaf and greedily dipping it into the thick, slightly sour, garlic and cucumber infused yogurt. Greece with grape vines over campground arbors, women stirring huge pots of tomato broth filled with giant white beans, and the shell of a cicada left clinging to a fabric seam on the inside my tiny hot blue tent.
I came to Europe a vegetarian, not a great way to visit new countries. Bread, tzatziki, beans, cheese - these are my staples, until Athens where I discover the most sublime gyros shop. The proprietor doesn't speak English, I don't speak Greek but we both know a little German. "Zwei gyros mit kein fleish" I say and repeat, aware of how strange my request must seem, proud that I dug some German out of my past.
Oh my god, the bread! Not like pita you find in the States, thin and cardboard in nature; this is puffy crisp soft bread basted in the juice of the gyros meat, like fry bread from a pow wow back home. I get one, then two, then tree with no meat, plenty of pungent tzatziki, the perfect accompaniment.
Do you know I still have sleeping dreams about Greece and her gyros 24 years later?
Dinner isn't so bad after all.
Standing beside the fridge, the plastic semi-opaque pint container with a black lid in front of me, another night, another non-dinner. Gluten free pretzels dipped into Trader Joe's tzatziki. I made my son a grilled cheese. My daughter went with friends to The Rainforest Cafe and then a sleepover. My partner was off with a new friend and me, standing in front of the mottled brown granite counter, colors more golden than when we saw the house three years ago, before we painted the kitchen warm glowing orange gold. Everything looks better in a warm glow, except the things that look better cool - like the white hot houses trimmed in cobalt blue on the islands of Greece, or a beach house perfectly rustic and empty in an old issue of Martha Stewart Living, before her name took a secondary place on the masthead.
I pry off the black plastic lid. Damn, an inside clear plastic protective film. I hate those - you have to cut them off, they don't make them with graspable pull tabs. Slimy, I carefully fold the plastic in half so I am gripping only the clean side and throw it away in the garbage under the sink behind me.
The smell transports me to the campground in Ioannina, the campground in Olympia, the campground in Delphi at the edge of the aquaduct that curves down the hillside toward the olive orchards. It's 1988 and I'm sitting on a rickety threshed chair, the four posts holding the seat pushing painfully into my thighs. Ripping bread from a fresh loaf and greedily dipping it into the thick, slightly sour, garlic and cucumber infused yogurt. Greece with grape vines over campground arbors, women stirring huge pots of tomato broth filled with giant white beans, and the shell of a cicada left clinging to a fabric seam on the inside my tiny hot blue tent.
I came to Europe a vegetarian, not a great way to visit new countries. Bread, tzatziki, beans, cheese - these are my staples, until Athens where I discover the most sublime gyros shop. The proprietor doesn't speak English, I don't speak Greek but we both know a little German. "Zwei gyros mit kein fleish" I say and repeat, aware of how strange my request must seem, proud that I dug some German out of my past.
Oh my god, the bread! Not like pita you find in the States, thin and cardboard in nature; this is puffy crisp soft bread basted in the juice of the gyros meat, like fry bread from a pow wow back home. I get one, then two, then tree with no meat, plenty of pungent tzatziki, the perfect accompaniment.
Do you know I still have sleeping dreams about Greece and her gyros 24 years later?
Dinner isn't so bad after all.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
The Daily Write: The boss (August 14, 2013)
Writing Prompt: The boss
He walked around the restaurant checking in with the clientele, doing what needed to be done if the servers were busy, and otherwise creating an air of mastery. They called him The Captain, although he wasn't alone. There was a captain at every fine dining establishment from San Francisco to Paris to Milan and beyond.
On his downtime he was less fastidious, although you could hardly have guessed that from observing him at work. He slept in boxers, woke up, and without putting anything else on, opened his door to the luxury apartment building hallway and grabbed the paper, itching his crotch and sometimes picking his nose. Slovenly except for his building had a doorman, a unique luxury in San Francisco, which was by no one's accounts, New York, not even on the best day.
He wasn't an unpleasant man, but he had no time for behaving properly when not constrained by the expectations of Robert, his longtime boss. It's true, he sometimes ate Kentucky Fried Chicken while sitting in front of the TV. He also liked to drink at the dive two blocks over and two blocks down at the corner of lonesome and dangerous.
Although he had done well for himself, running the front of the house in a Michelin rated venue for years, and with no family to suck away his funds, he had no desire to be anything but real when he was off duty. Charlie instead of Charles. Sweatpants or loose old jeans instead of pressed fine fabric slacks, a simple gold chain around his neck instead of the finest silk tie. A real contrast between on and off if he reflected on himself.
Even Robert knew this, and they sometimes joked about it, but never when the staff was nearby. For the staff the expectations of perfection, reverence and efficient silence were in order, unless speaking with the guests. For the staff, Charles and Robert put on quite the show of disciplined excellence.
She noticed all this without telling anyone. She frequented the establishment, and happened to live in his building. He thought of her as a benign presence, having no idea that she studied him day in and day out. Even she wasn't quite sure why she bothered. She supposed it gave her something to do in an otherwise privileged but massively dull life.
He walked around the restaurant checking in with the clientele, doing what needed to be done if the servers were busy, and otherwise creating an air of mastery. They called him The Captain, although he wasn't alone. There was a captain at every fine dining establishment from San Francisco to Paris to Milan and beyond.
On his downtime he was less fastidious, although you could hardly have guessed that from observing him at work. He slept in boxers, woke up, and without putting anything else on, opened his door to the luxury apartment building hallway and grabbed the paper, itching his crotch and sometimes picking his nose. Slovenly except for his building had a doorman, a unique luxury in San Francisco, which was by no one's accounts, New York, not even on the best day.
He wasn't an unpleasant man, but he had no time for behaving properly when not constrained by the expectations of Robert, his longtime boss. It's true, he sometimes ate Kentucky Fried Chicken while sitting in front of the TV. He also liked to drink at the dive two blocks over and two blocks down at the corner of lonesome and dangerous.
Although he had done well for himself, running the front of the house in a Michelin rated venue for years, and with no family to suck away his funds, he had no desire to be anything but real when he was off duty. Charlie instead of Charles. Sweatpants or loose old jeans instead of pressed fine fabric slacks, a simple gold chain around his neck instead of the finest silk tie. A real contrast between on and off if he reflected on himself.
Even Robert knew this, and they sometimes joked about it, but never when the staff was nearby. For the staff the expectations of perfection, reverence and efficient silence were in order, unless speaking with the guests. For the staff, Charles and Robert put on quite the show of disciplined excellence.
She noticed all this without telling anyone. She frequented the establishment, and happened to live in his building. He thought of her as a benign presence, having no idea that she studied him day in and day out. Even she wasn't quite sure why she bothered. She supposed it gave her something to do in an otherwise privileged but massively dull life.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The Daily Write: Albert taps a cigarette from his pack (August 13, 2013)
Writing Prompt: Albert taps a cigarette from his pack
A tall black man with a French accent and short braids, great smile, knowing gait. Exactly what the stuffy, if delicious, restaurant needed. True, a restaurant, unless constructed from food, can't be delicious. And true "restaurant" seems a cheap word, almost common, which is what this place was anything but.
The fabric gathered into a cathedral at the center, drape upon drape, fold upon fold. I think it actually made her a little bit nauseous, the cloistered decor, the polite monied client dinners and old school gray haired set.
Next to us an Asian man in his mid-30s, no doubt a millionaire, or man behind the next big start up, slurped his wine pretentiously. He seemed nice enough, even when talking into his ear piece in this sanctified establishment, located in San Francisco since the late 50s. But god, the slurping. I mean, how much aeration does one guy need? Did the wine taste good? Check. Did he know what it tasted like after the first two sips? Check. So knock it off with the noises from hell.
It made for funny silent lip mimes from me to my date, "oh my god! I can't take the slurping." Try to read that out of someone's mouth from who breath and sound barely escape. I made up for it, of course, by spilling the chocolate sauce and asking loud naive questions about the food. I can only fake it so long, and being quiet and straight backed, proper, is really not my thing, never has been.
Our waiter was a woman. White, wavy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wasn't portly, but neither was she thin. I wanted to like her but:
a) she had no sense of humor
b) she seemed like someone I would have met in college
Later a gay waiter in his 40s walked by, winked and mouthed "happy birthday" to me. This made me happy. Why? Because they always like the queers in those places, especially the unlikely butch/femme couple like us.
A tall black man with a French accent and short braids, great smile, knowing gait. Exactly what the stuffy, if delicious, restaurant needed. True, a restaurant, unless constructed from food, can't be delicious. And true "restaurant" seems a cheap word, almost common, which is what this place was anything but.
The fabric gathered into a cathedral at the center, drape upon drape, fold upon fold. I think it actually made her a little bit nauseous, the cloistered decor, the polite monied client dinners and old school gray haired set.
Next to us an Asian man in his mid-30s, no doubt a millionaire, or man behind the next big start up, slurped his wine pretentiously. He seemed nice enough, even when talking into his ear piece in this sanctified establishment, located in San Francisco since the late 50s. But god, the slurping. I mean, how much aeration does one guy need? Did the wine taste good? Check. Did he know what it tasted like after the first two sips? Check. So knock it off with the noises from hell.
It made for funny silent lip mimes from me to my date, "oh my god! I can't take the slurping." Try to read that out of someone's mouth from who breath and sound barely escape. I made up for it, of course, by spilling the chocolate sauce and asking loud naive questions about the food. I can only fake it so long, and being quiet and straight backed, proper, is really not my thing, never has been.
Our waiter was a woman. White, wavy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wasn't portly, but neither was she thin. I wanted to like her but:
a) she had no sense of humor
b) she seemed like someone I would have met in college
Later a gay waiter in his 40s walked by, winked and mouthed "happy birthday" to me. This made me happy. Why? Because they always like the queers in those places, especially the unlikely butch/femme couple like us.
Friday, August 9, 2013
The Daily Write: Write about a time you retreated (August 9, 2013)
Writing Prompt: Write about a time you retreated
There's a fine line between telling my own story and telling the story of my mother. In some moments I feel like I own her story, after all, didn't it create the conditions of my life? Therefore, don't I have a right to it? On the other hand, many years ago my partner became impatient with the way I seemed to romanticize her past and asked me to stop asking her so many questions or retelling what was hers to tell.
So, I vacillate between what I want to say, what I think I should say and what shouldn't be said. It's a fine line, a tiny bit less awkward given the fact that I don't yet have an agent. But that will change soon. I am destined to be a storyteller and writer, and then surely it will all come out.
Honestly, there's so much that will come out that I can clearly never run for political office. I could do a stint as a rock star, no doubt, because their lives are nothing without secrets revealed. But is ones background and growing up time their own to share or does the story start with the first time on stage, or on the road?
Did you ever see the movie Almost Famous? I resonated with those characters - the eager journalist, the beautiful groupie, the egotistical rock god. Or how about Laurel Canyon? I loved that tough/loose mother and music producer played by Frances McDormand. I cried wanting to be there, in the hot wind of an LA enclave.
I grew up between worlds, between states, between parents and siblings. I grew up on the edges of extreme wealth and hippie poverty. My childhood smelled like patchouli and grass in the summers and hot stifling normativity during the school year. My worlds conflicted, as did my allegiances and no one knew the whole me except me.
When my mom moved to the guru's commune, my story became more colorful, at least in tones of a red orange sunset. Only it wasn't me who lived there. I was, as I had always been, on the outside looking in, sometimes with envy, sometimes with curiosity, usually feeling left out.
There's a fine line between telling my own story and telling the story of my mother. In some moments I feel like I own her story, after all, didn't it create the conditions of my life? Therefore, don't I have a right to it? On the other hand, many years ago my partner became impatient with the way I seemed to romanticize her past and asked me to stop asking her so many questions or retelling what was hers to tell.
So, I vacillate between what I want to say, what I think I should say and what shouldn't be said. It's a fine line, a tiny bit less awkward given the fact that I don't yet have an agent. But that will change soon. I am destined to be a storyteller and writer, and then surely it will all come out.
Honestly, there's so much that will come out that I can clearly never run for political office. I could do a stint as a rock star, no doubt, because their lives are nothing without secrets revealed. But is ones background and growing up time their own to share or does the story start with the first time on stage, or on the road?
Did you ever see the movie Almost Famous? I resonated with those characters - the eager journalist, the beautiful groupie, the egotistical rock god. Or how about Laurel Canyon? I loved that tough/loose mother and music producer played by Frances McDormand. I cried wanting to be there, in the hot wind of an LA enclave.
I grew up between worlds, between states, between parents and siblings. I grew up on the edges of extreme wealth and hippie poverty. My childhood smelled like patchouli and grass in the summers and hot stifling normativity during the school year. My worlds conflicted, as did my allegiances and no one knew the whole me except me.
When my mom moved to the guru's commune, my story became more colorful, at least in tones of a red orange sunset. Only it wasn't me who lived there. I was, as I had always been, on the outside looking in, sometimes with envy, sometimes with curiosity, usually feeling left out.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
The Daily Write: Quirky (August 8, 2013)
Writing Prompt: Quirky
When my son was a baby I needed to feel good. It was a hard birth, he had a hole in his lung that made him sound like a migrating goose when he cried and we were broke. I had midwives that made me livid, one of them reading my copy of Prodigal Summer while I suffered in back labor in my kitchen, and the other who told me to stop listening to my "monkey mind" after she overheard me telling a nurse in labor and delivery that I had a hard pregnancy. My home birth didn't work out. I didn't feel like an accomplished earth mother with every contraction. I wasn't able to produce milk (something the midwives made me feel was my fault "for not trying hard enough").
To feel better, after his lung was healed, we were home and my partner was back at work, I listened to Desi Arnaz and Frank Sinatra. I couldn't tolerate modern music or anything that felt sad. I held my big baby against my shoulder, patting his back and dancing him around in our funky small kitchen, moving across tattered brown and yellow vinyl flooring and cooing into his ears. I sang and danced and smelled his beautiful baby head, so full of hair that by six months he had his first hair cut.
My little baby boy, big of eyes, small of nose, tiny of hands. Us together, dancing in the kitchen to the music from the past, from an imagined less complicated time. I would take any illusion I could get to feel less worried about his future, about his life, about the amount of time I would have to be with him as his mother.
When my son was a baby I needed to feel good. It was a hard birth, he had a hole in his lung that made him sound like a migrating goose when he cried and we were broke. I had midwives that made me livid, one of them reading my copy of Prodigal Summer while I suffered in back labor in my kitchen, and the other who told me to stop listening to my "monkey mind" after she overheard me telling a nurse in labor and delivery that I had a hard pregnancy. My home birth didn't work out. I didn't feel like an accomplished earth mother with every contraction. I wasn't able to produce milk (something the midwives made me feel was my fault "for not trying hard enough").
To feel better, after his lung was healed, we were home and my partner was back at work, I listened to Desi Arnaz and Frank Sinatra. I couldn't tolerate modern music or anything that felt sad. I held my big baby against my shoulder, patting his back and dancing him around in our funky small kitchen, moving across tattered brown and yellow vinyl flooring and cooing into his ears. I sang and danced and smelled his beautiful baby head, so full of hair that by six months he had his first hair cut.
My little baby boy, big of eyes, small of nose, tiny of hands. Us together, dancing in the kitchen to the music from the past, from an imagined less complicated time. I would take any illusion I could get to feel less worried about his future, about his life, about the amount of time I would have to be with him as his mother.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
The Daily Write: Tell us about Abigail (August 7, 2013)
Writing Prompt: Tell us about Abigail
She had a short bob, Dorothy Hamill style, black, shiny and enviably straight. Her eyes were big, like a Kewpie doll, accentuated by the white face mime makeup. She wore white wide legged pants, a tucked in black shirt and rainbow suspenders with a big fake red rose pinned to the left strap just below her slight shoulders. Not tall, but leggy, Abigail had all the moves. And she smiled, a lot, which made her eyes appear to pop out of her head without seeming grotesque.
I'm not sure how I knew her real name, since her moniker for the disco dance class was Salt, her husband, Pepper. He was a taller version of her - same outfit, dark hair. There were some other differences. He had curls and a busy mustache, for instance. And he wore no rose.
He flung her around, a flying buttress of airborne sinew and pantomime moves. And together they enthusiastically Hustled back and forth, clapping, tapping, spinning and then telling us to do the same.
We were anything but smooth faced - 10 and 11 year olds approaching puberty with awkward self-conscious moves and fits of embarrassing giggles.
She had a short bob, Dorothy Hamill style, black, shiny and enviably straight. Her eyes were big, like a Kewpie doll, accentuated by the white face mime makeup. She wore white wide legged pants, a tucked in black shirt and rainbow suspenders with a big fake red rose pinned to the left strap just below her slight shoulders. Not tall, but leggy, Abigail had all the moves. And she smiled, a lot, which made her eyes appear to pop out of her head without seeming grotesque.
I'm not sure how I knew her real name, since her moniker for the disco dance class was Salt, her husband, Pepper. He was a taller version of her - same outfit, dark hair. There were some other differences. He had curls and a busy mustache, for instance. And he wore no rose.
He flung her around, a flying buttress of airborne sinew and pantomime moves. And together they enthusiastically Hustled back and forth, clapping, tapping, spinning and then telling us to do the same.
We were anything but smooth faced - 10 and 11 year olds approaching puberty with awkward self-conscious moves and fits of embarrassing giggles.
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